Life Class

by Pat Barker

  He’d left all his things at the Slade so he had to go back there. Jumping on a bus, he found a seat on the top deck and gazed out over the heads of the crowds. For the first few minutes he kept on searching for the girl, though he knew he wouldn’t see her.

  The exhilaration had gone now. He was back with his own problems. Should he admit defeat and leave the Slade? Was he wasting Nan’s legacy?

  – ’Course you bloody are. Art! It’s not for people like us, such as that.

  What ‘people like us’ did – or, more frequently, didn’t do – had been a favourite topic of hers, the pincers used to nip off any green shoot of hope and ambition one or other of her children might have been cherishing. They’d learned not to, fast enough. She hadn’t applied it to herself though, at least not towards the end of her long life. At eighty, she’d bought herself a motor car. The only motor car previously seen in their streets belonged to the local doctor. Every Friday afternoon and all day Saturday she’d been driven round to collect her rents, sitting up on the back seat, ramrod straight (though she was a martyr to her back), dismounting now and then to bang on the doors of one ramshackle house after another, wresting coppers from reluctant hands. She must have been the most hated woman in the city.

  – Aye, mebbe. But it put the clothes on your back, didn’t it? And paid for you to go to that posh school.

  He got off near Russell Square and walked the rest of the way. Students were streaming away from the Slade as he approached, but he kept his head down, not wanting to speak to anybody. He hadn’t reached a decision, though if anything all that pacing round the park had strengthened his feeling that he ought to leave as soon as possible.

  The Antiques Room did nothing to change his mind. Plaster casts of Classical and Renaissance sculpture stood in a line along one wall.

  – Cartload of fellers showing their whatsits.

  He’d spent whole mornings copying them, whole days when he first started, except for an hour at the end of the afternoon session when they were allowed to troop down the corridor to join the life class. On benches at the far end were smaller pieces: decapitated heads, limbless torsos, amputated arms and legs. Like an abattoir without the blood.

  Had all his time in this room been wasted?

  No time to be asking that question now. He picked up his bag and was about to leave when he heard a noise and turned to find Elinor Brooke standing by the open door.

  ‘I thought I heard somebody,’ she said.

  She came towards him until she was close enough to touch. A stir of desire, almost indistinguishable from irritation. He wasn’t in the mood for ‘the treatment’ – by which he meant the air of intimacy Elinor created between herself and any man she spoke to, though to be fair it wasn’t only men, he’d seen her adopt exactly the same approach to women. No, he wasn’t in the mood for Miss Brooke, but then she raised her gigantic blue eyes to his … ‘Gig lamps,’ his father used to say. ‘Eyes like gig lamps.’ It had been one of the magic phrases of his childhood.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Only I heard you’d walked out of the life class.’

  He wondered which of the men had told her. ‘I needed a bit of fresh air.’

  ‘Was it something Tonks said?’

  ‘You know Tonks. He more or less said I was wasting my time.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Ye-es, ouch. Anyway, after that I thought I’d better go away and do some thinking. I couldn’t just go on drawing.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Hyde Park.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t exactly run away to sea, did I? Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘No, go ahead. I might even join you.’

  Her pupils shrank as the match flared between them. ‘What are you going to do?’

  No advice, he noticed. She often asked for advice from men, but never gave it. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if there’s any point staying till the end of term. I mean, you could say, if I’m wasting my time the sooner I’m out of here the better.’ A dragging pause. ‘He likes your work.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, simply. ‘I know.’

  They smoked in silence for a while. Then she said, ‘Life drawing isn’t the be-all and end-all, you know.’

  ‘It is here.’

  ‘So perhaps here isn’t the right place?’

  He shook his head. It had taken so much determination to cut loose from his background and come to the Slade that he could hardly grapple with the idea that he’d made the wrong choice.

  ‘Anyway,’ Elinor said, standing up. ‘I’d better be getting on.’ She turned toward the door, then looked back. ‘A few of us are going to the Café Royal tonight. Would you like to come?’

  He hesitated, but only for a second. What else was he going to do except sit inhis lodgings and brood about his non-existent future? ‘Yes, I’d like that. What time?’

  ‘About eight.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you there. Are you going home now?’

  ‘Soon.’

  He opened the door for her and watched her walk away down the corridor. With her cropped hair and straight shoulders she looked like a young soldier striding along, and for a moment he saw something in her, something of the person she might be when she was alone, not adapting in that sinuous way of hers to other people, not turning herself into a mirror to magnify whatever qualities he – it was generally he – fancied himself to possess. He’d have liked to know her, that secret person, but the mirror was also a shield and she’d be in no hurry to put it down.

  Two

  Three hours later Paul was pushing open the door of the Café Royal. Lying in the bath at his lodgings, he’d almost changed his mind about going, but the moment he walked into the Domino Room his mood lifted. The tall mirrors in which the heads of smokers, drinkers and talkers were endlessly and elaborately reflected, the laughter, the bare shoulders of the women, the pall of blue smoke above the clustered heads, the sense of witty, significant things being said by interesting people – it was a world away from his poky little rooms in St Pancras. A world away from home, too.

  People glanced up at him as he passed, their faces illuminated by the small candles that flickered on every table. Everywhere, moist lips, glimpses of red, wet tongues, gleaming white teeth. How sleek and glossy they all were compared to the creatures who lived in the streets around his lodgings, scurrying about in their soot-laden drizzle, the women so tightly wrapped they seemed to be bundles of clothes walking. This was another England and, passing between the two, he was aware of a moment’s dislocation, not unlike vertigo.

  At last he saw Elinor, sitting at a table directly underneath one of the mirrors. She had her back to him, but then caught sight of his reflection in the glass and raised her hand. It was a moment out of time, their two reflections gazing at one another. Then noise, laughter, movement rushed back, as he threaded his way between the last few tables to greet her. ‘Elinor.’

  ‘Paul.’

  She raised her face to his and for one mad moment he thought he was expected to kiss her, but then she turned away. ‘Teresa, this is Paul Tarrant. Do you remember I said he might be coming? Paul, Teresa Halliday.’

  The girl held out her hand. She was dark, with short, shining hair, high cheekbones and red, painted, pouting lips. That mouth still had the power to shock, though he’d noticed that many of the women here wore make-up. She was wearing a high-necked brocade jacket that made her look … Russian, Chinese? Anything but English. He was instantly attracted to her and thought she was aware of him, though once the introduction was over she said nothing further, merely leaned back against the plush seat waiting to have Elinor’s full attention again.

  ‘And this is Kit Neville.’

  He’d seen Neville once or twice at the Slade. He was starting to be famous, a circumstance that some people attributed to a talent for painting and others to a talent for self-promotion.

  ‘Kit was at the Slade.’ />
  Neville looked uncomfortable. ‘I left two years ago.’

  ‘But you’re always coming back.’

  ‘Oh, we all come back.’ It was said easily, but he was obviously nettled by the observation.

  ‘Not everybody.’

  Paul was trying to recall the stories he’d heard about Neville at the Slade. Hadn’t he been expelled?

  ‘What’ll you have?’ Neville asked, raising his hand to summon the waiter.

  ‘Whisky please.’

  ‘I think the ones who keep coming back are the ones it didn’t work for,’ said Elinor. ‘It’s like turning a key in a lock. If it turns you forget about it. If it doesn’t you go on rattling away.’

  ‘Or move on to something else.’ Neville was flushed and miserable-looking. ‘So,’ he said, turning to Paul, ‘Elinor tells me you walked out on Tonks today.’

  ‘He said he thinks I’m wasting my time. I didn’t see the point of sitting there after that.’

  ‘He can be wrong, you know.’

  ‘How long were you at the Slade?’

  ‘Two years. And I didn’t walk out.’ Neville’s eyes were alight with a blue, dancing truculence. ‘Probably should have done, mind you, but I didn’t, I stuck it out, and in the end he more or less said, Go.’ He grinned, adding in a mock Oirish accent, ‘Never resign, mister. Get yourself fired.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why did he throw you out?’

  ‘He didn’t like my work. I didn’t like it much either so I can’t hold that against him. And …’ With a sidelong glance at the girls he lowered his voice. ‘He disapproved of my relationship with one of the models. She got pregnant and I refused to be fathered.’

  Paul was startled and a little repelled by so much intimacy so early in their acquaintance. ‘Oh.’

  ‘I said, Why the hell should I pay? There’s at least a dozen others who could be the father and if you believe everything you hear Tonks was one of them. But of course he got on his high horse. What was it? For a long time he’d believed that nothing could exceed his contempt for my work, but in the light of recent events he now realized his contempt for my moral character was infinitely greater.’

  What an extraordinary story to tell against yourself. It argued either unlimited egotism or a talent for self-destruction, or both perhaps. It was difficult to know what to say. Trying to lighten the tone, Paul said, ‘Are all the models like that?’

  ‘Like what? Oh, loose, you mean? Yes, a lot of them are, thank God. But …’ Nodding towards Teresa, he raised a finger to his lips.

  ‘She’s a model?’

  She was so unlike the generally rather battered ladies who modelled for the life class he could scarcely believe it. At that moment she glanced across and met his eyes, smiled a slow, incommunicative smile, and immediately turned again to Elinor. The two girls were focused on each other in a way he found provocative.

  ‘What are you two getting so intense about?’ Neville asked.

  That was clumsy, and he wasn’t a clumsy man. Too sure of himself for that.

  ‘Teresa’s husband’s been snooping round again.’

  Husband. Paul’s eyes went to her left hand, but she wasn’t wearing a ring.

  ‘Caught him out the back last night trying to see through the window. Least, I thought it was him. You know, I pulled the curtain back and there was this face squashed against the glass, didn’t look like anything on earth, but then he stepped back a bit and of course I could see it was him. Anyroad, there’s me screaming blue murder and the chap upstairs ran down to see what was going on – only by that time he’d gone.’

  ‘He’s left you alone quite a long time, hasn’t he?’ Neville said.

  ‘Going on a year. But that’s what he does.’ She flicked a glance at Paul. ‘He starts getting on with his own life but then the minute things start to go wrong he decides it’s all my fault and comes looking for me again. And it always does go wrong. He can’t hold a job down. I don’t think it’s ever going to end.’

  ‘It will,’ said Elinor. ‘He’ll drink himself to death.’

  ‘That’s a slow process,’ Neville said, gazing down at his empty glass.

  Paul took the hint and summoned the waiter. Elinor shook her head – she’d scarcely touched her glass – but Teresa nodded. With a stab of excitement, Paul realized she was tipsy.

  As he gave the order, he heard Neville ask, in his blunt, authoritative way, ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Move, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, you can’t,’ Elinor said. ‘Not again.’

  ‘Well, I can’t stop there. Even if he’s not outside spying on me I always think he is. And if he finds out I’m modelling …’

  ‘How could he find out?’ Neville said.

  ‘He’s only got to follow me. I thought I saw him the other day just as I was leaving Tonks.’

  So she modelled for Tonks. Paul saw her slipping off her robe, mounting the dais, Tonks’s hand on her arm adjusting the pose. The image produced such a rush of desire and envy he missed part of the conversation.

  ‘Look,’ Elinor was saying, when he was able to concentrate again, ‘he’s got to eat, he’s got to sleep, he can’t be following you round all the time.’

  ‘What else has he got to do? Except drink.’

  ‘Doesn’t he have a home to go to?’ Paul said.

  ‘Well, you know you’re always welcome to stay with me,’ Elinor said. ‘There’s a sofa in the living room.’

  ‘I know, and it’s kind of you, but you wouldn’t have anywhere to paint. I’ve got to get it sorted out.’

  Neville’s gaze on Elinor’s face had become even more intent. ‘You should go to the police,’ he said to Teresa, roughly, not looking at her. ‘That’d frighten him off.’

  ‘I’m his wife. I could go in with a couple of black eyes and a broken nose wouldn’t worry them.’

  ‘Has he hit you?’ Paul said.

  ‘’Course he has.’ Incredibly, she laughed. ‘Blames me for that too, he was never a violent man till he met me.’

  ‘Then Neville’s right. You should go to the police.’

  ‘They’re not interested.’

  ‘You have finished with him, I suppose?’ said Neville. ‘Really finished? There isn’t a small part of you still feels sorry for him?’

  She looked away, resenting the question or made uncomfortable by it. ‘You can’t be indifferent to somebody you’ve –’ She shook her head. ‘No, it’s over. I couldn’t go back to him now.’

  The conversation lapsed, though after a while the two girls started whispering to each other again. Paul sensed they were getting ready to part.

  A few minutes later Elinor stood up. ‘I’ve got to go, I’m afraid.’

  Instantly, Neville was on his feet. He was going past her lodgings on his way home, perhaps he could drop her off? She seemed about to refuse, but then nodded.

  ‘Teresa, are you sure you don’t want to come back with me?’

  ‘No, I’m all right, really. Don’t worry about me.’

  They kissed goodbye. Paul watched as Elinor and Neville left together. At the door Neville put his hand between her shoulder blades, guiding her. They’d said nothing all evening to suggest they were more than acquaintances, and yet now, suddenly, he saw they had a close, perhaps even intimate, relationship.

  Teresa had gone quiet. There were purple shadows under her eyes and he found himself wanting to touch them. He moved closer. They chatted about this and that, the conversation sputtering like a cold engine – on, off – until a shadow fell across their table and Paul looked up to find no less a person than the great Augustus John towering over them.

  ‘Teresa,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you join us? And your friend too, of course.’

  She looked across him to a noisy table at the far end of the room. ‘Thanks, Gus, but I was just leaving. I’ve got a bit of a headache coming on.’ She was reaching for her bag as she spoke.

 
Another few words and, with a nod to Paul, the great man moved on.

  She’d chosen to stay with him. Perhaps. More likely the headache was genuine and she was longing to get home. But that didn’t seem probable either with a potentially violent husband prowling round her backyard. He looked at her and saw how the purple shadows had changed the colour of her eyes from pale to smoky grey. The blood was thickening in his neck. ‘Shall we go, then?’

  She nodded at once and stood up.

  Three

  A light rain had fallen. The street was busy, people hurrying to restaurant and bars. Women’s scents, as they walked past on the arms of husbands and lovers, mingled with the smell of leather and dung from the cab horses that stamped and jingled in a long row by the kerb. For no better reason than the freshness of moist air on his skin, Paul felt suddenly full of hope.

  Teresa was pulling on her gloves, pale grey cotton, pressing each finger into place. She barely reached his shoulder but was so slim and held herself so erect that she struck him as a tall woman, and how beautiful that dark, warm colouring, those cheekbones that caught and held the light.

  ‘I suppose you’ve already had dinner?’

  ‘No, I came straight from modelling.’ Her voice had an unexpected rasp to it, like fingernails dragged across the skin. ‘I’ll have something when I get back.’

  As she spoke her pale grey eyes darkened, and he realized two things: she was hungry – that must be why the wine had affected her so much – and she was afraid.

  ‘Perhaps we could eat together?’

  She looked up at him. A cleft in her chin, he noticed, rare in women. He struggled not to touch it, the side of his thumb would rest there so sweetly.